


Soulbound

by catinahat



Series: Resonance [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fate, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmates, soulmark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catinahat/pseuds/catinahat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherever his soulmate was he was hurting, lonely, desperate. John felt hauntingly lonely. Where are you? He thought desperately. Haven’t I waited long enough?</p><p>John's Soulmark is unique, as unique as the man whose heart he carries on his wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

Anne had always been so sure of her Soulmate – the name had drifted across her wrist one summer’s night as she slept – Hamish Watson. She had been the respectable age of fifteen when it had appeared – or Etched – into the skin on her left wrist, the name in block capitals filled her with a sense of peace, of belonging. Her parents had of course been delighted; it was fairly common to receive handwriting as a Soulmark but rarely something as identifiable as a name. Anne showed off her new Soulmark to her friends – although technically forbidden it was something everyone did – at least at first.

Hamish Watson was four years older than Anne. He was at university training to be a doctor, being sponsored by the army. Across his right wrist in Anne’s cursive handwriting lay her own name – his smile was hesitant though, guarded as they observed his young soulmate. And although she was his soulmate he was only human. It was five years at medical school before he joined the army, during that time Hamish Watson did not live a life of chastity that society judged he should after meeting his soulmate. That was when Anne watched her Soulmark – once a light pink, turn green with envy and black with sorrow. It was a dangerous thing to wear your heart so openly.

_ Fourteen Years Later _

John was one of the unlucky ones. He was born with his Soulmark already Etched. It was a violent red on his new born skin – a sigil that was bound to his flesh, a scar that would never heal. His mother wept when she saw the mark – not because she believed the rumours about children that were born with their Soulmark – but because she knew her baby son would have trouble finding his soulmate. There was no name Etched on her son’s skin, no number, not even a line of his soulmate’s handwriting. It was a Soulmark made up of jagged lines – the symbol it showed was as of yet illegible. It made no difference what it was. The chances of finding the person who wore her son’s heart on his sleeve was almost nothing. So Anne Watson wept as she held her son, as the nurses gently placed a small cuff on his tiny arm – a courtesy in a world where to bare your Soulmark was to make your heart vulnerable.

“Anne? Annie? What IS the matter…is it John…what’s wrong?”

Her husband’s frantic questions finally got through to her; she turned tear stained eyes towards him and showed him John’s Soulmark. Hamish’s face paled considerably and he sank into the uncomfortable plastic chair besides his wife.

“It’s much easier to find your match these days Annie…and you know everyone meets their match at some point in their life even if…”

Hamish swallowed hard “…even if he doesn’t realise it.”

He raised a trembling hand to touch John’s head, the baby sleeping soundly, totally unaware of the chaos that had heralded his birth.

Protection

John Hamish Watson tugged at the cuff on his left arm. It was hot and his Soulmark itched. He was in the back garden sulking. It wasn’t fair that Harry got to do all the fun, grown-up stuff just because her Soulmark had finally Etched. John had ALWAYS had his and he never got to do anything. He glanced warily at the house where Harry’s Etching celebration was still going on, it was loud and his dad was acting strange – the same he always did when he drank. John kicked his football hard. It didn’t help. He peered under his cuff – the worn leather that had used to belong to his dad when he was John’s age.

John stared at his Soulmark. His finger tentatively traced the sigil. His mother had told him that it was someone’s heart; the he should treat it with care. He scowled with the impatience of a seven year old boy who had deemed that he had already spent years waiting, that he was fed up with waiting. His mother had told him that somewhere there was someone who bore John’s heart and that in time he would find them.

John thought his Soulmark looked kind of like a Christmas cracker. It had gotten him excited the first time he had made the discovery, except he had no idea what the meant. He kicked his football again and sulked some more. He ignored the people calling his name until they began to sound angry.

John sighed and headed back inside, his seven year old mind already moving on to more important things – like if he could sneak a second slice of cake when his mother wasn’t paying attention. His Soulmark represented a distant, hazy figure – a figure from a life far into John’s future.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hamish, please don’t! Stop!”

His mother’s cries and Harry’s weeping bought John out from the cupboard his sister had shoved him into, his feet silently treading a path down the stairs to the living room. His mother was sat on the sofa, her face buried in her hands as she rocked back and forth, tears shining on her cheeks. His dad was swaying drunkenly in the middle of the room, his face red with anger and flushed with alcohol as he pointed an accusing finger at Harry,

“I won’t…won’t STAND for it Harriot, not in MY house!”

His voice was slurred, but loud, so very loud. Harry stood with her fists clenched at her sides, her face pale as she stood up to her father – her tone of voice pleading.

“Please daddy, I didn’t know and I can’t help it! Her name is on my wrist!”

She shoved her wrist towards their dad, her eyes – the Watson eyes – filling with tears. John shuffled from foot to foot, noticing that he had cut his feet on the broken glass which littered the floor. John’s gaze fell on his sister’s Soulmark, quickly cutting away as years of being told it was the height of rudeness held sway. But not before he saw. His sister’s new Etching read ‘Clara Simmons’.

“No! There must be some mistake…it has to come off! OFF!”

His dad was scaring John. He was lurching wildly towards Harry holding a jagged piece of glass. His mother screamed and lunged at his dad, trying to keep him away from Harry – however she was a small woman and was easily shoved aside by her much larger husband. Harry was frozen to the spot; her arm had curled unconsciously into her body in order to protect her Soulmark. It was as instinctive as breathing. John gave a yell and flew at his father, heedless of the danger. The only thought he had was to protect, to stop his father hurting Harry.

It was what he told to police when they arrived having been called by a neighbour, it was also what he told the paramedics who were treating him for concussion. What he didn’t tell them was that he had felt a strange tingling in his Soulmark before he had – almost as though something, or someone, knew he was about to do something brave. _STUPID._ The word caught him off guard. He didn’t know where it had come from only that it had been thrust into his head when he thought of placing himself in front of Harry. He didn’t catch the pensive looks the paramedics exchanged over his head, as they examined his Soulmark – the privilege of those in the medical profession. His Soulmark had changed – rather than the inky black it had settled on shortly after his birth, it was now streaked with blood red. He prodded at the presence in his mind. It didn’t respond. The paramedics asked him what he was doing. Instinctively he lied – _protect_ – his heart insisted.

It wasn’t until years later that he realised exactly what he had been protecting that night.

Polarity

“Watson? Hey, WATSON!”

John’s head jerked up from where it had been lying on his desk. He moaned as his head pounded when he turned it in the direction of the doorway.

“Uh…mate you look wrecked. Came by to see if you wanted to come out but…”

John frowned and reached a hand up to remove the sheet of paper which had become stuck to his face during the night. He ran a hand tiredly through his hair and grimaced, he really needed to shower. And eat. And sleep. God did he need sleep. But he was in the middle of his final exams. Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

“Wazzit?”

He mumbled sleepily, slowly pulling his brain from the fog of sleep to focus on his flatemate. His flatmate who was eyeing him was something akin to trepidation.

“Look I know you take exams seriously but…you look like a corpse.”

John frowned and flipped Mike off, stumbling to his feet and rubbing his face furiously with his hands.

“Yeah I know. Thanks Mike.”

He felt better after a shower and multiple cups of tea, so much better that when the screams from the flat next door reached their kitchen he acted on instinct, hastening across the corridor as quickly as he could. Someone had fallen down the stairs, was lying in an awkward heap at the bottom, their (friend? mother? sister? Irrelevant.), was in hysterics.

“It’s okay I’m a medical student. Please phone 999, I’ll look after your….”

John paused, but luckily the woman was slowly pulling herself together enough to – with trembling fingers – go the landline and dial for an ambulance. John hunkered down besides the young man, carefully feeling for any broken bones. Leg – showing signs of acute pain but currently numbed by the shock. Vision – unfocused and pupils unreactive, likely cause severe concussion. Right wrist – definitely broken, likely in two places. John left the patient exactly where he was. Talking to him in a soft voice, keeping the mother calm until the paramedics arrived.

That night John slept curled around his arm, his fingers resting lightly on his Soulmark. The Soulmark which had started to show streaks of grey. Wherever his soulmate was he was hurting, lonely, desperate. John felt hauntingly lonely. _Where are you?_ He thought desperately. _Haven’t I waited long enough?_ It felt like everyone was Etching and finding their soulmates. Everyone except John. He dutifully clasped hands with every person he greeted – never quite overcoming the expectation that this time, this time, would be the one who’s Etching would recognise his and give out the pulse referred to as Resonance. Like calling to like. But all John could do was watch as his Soulmark turned darker and darker. _I would protect you. I would heal you._ He told the presence in his mind.

John was a natural healer.

Except he was also a natural killer.

Warrior

The first time he killed someone he was twenty-four and on his first tour of duty. The sun was blistering to a young man who had never set foot outside the rainy British climate, the sand felt irritable and strange against his skin, the smell of sweat and petrol and metal was alien to him. He wore the uniform of the RAMC with pride, but not a small amount of nervousness – the distinctive red cross on the arm demanding respect from both ally and enemy alike. Whether it was given or not was another matter entirely.

The ambush came quickly and without warning. The enemy didn’t care the John Watson was a medical officer, not interested in killing. But John found, paradoxically that he found killing as natural as he did healing. What that made him he didn’t know.

John gave years of service to his country, no one in the Army cared that he was unbonded – highly unusual once you got past your mid-twenties. John had been so sure he would find his soulmate here, in the Army. John felt he had found his home here, a family that finally accepted who he was, accepted what he was. Except there was an emptiness in his life, a weight that dragged on his heart, the feeling that there was something vital missing from his life.

He mourned the absence of his soulmate. When the nightmares hunted him, the images of the men he had been unable to save or the men he had been forced to kill, he called silently to the muted presence of his soulmate. _Help. Please. Help. Where are you?_ But he never felt anything back. Not a word or a feeling or stray thought. Maybe he was imagining he could feel his soulmate. He watched as his Soulmark – which had long since turned an ugly shade of grey – began to slowly regain colour, turning black and red and green. I would kill for you. He thought at the presence in his mind – the presence he wasn’t sure wasn’t just a figment of his imagination.

He didn’t know it then, but one day he would.

 

Regeneration

His last thought – directly after _please, God, let me live_ – was a desperate cry towards that phantom shadow in his heart. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please -._ That was when everything went black. He convinced himself afterwards that he hadn’t felt the answering scream of loss and bitterness and panic. Afterwards he convinced himself of a lot of things.

He convinced himself that the bedsit was perfectly reasonable accommodation for a recovering solider.

He convinced himself that his therapy was working.

He convinced himself that he was fine on his own.

He wasn’t fine.

His family was in tatters, and had been shattered long ago. His soulmate – wherever and whoever they were – was unlikely to want him now, even if they had before – and their silence in his mind suggested they were deliberately ignoring him. The only thing he had was the Army, and now that door was closed to him. The gun sat in his desk draw. A possibility. He didn’t feel the flash of alarm through his Soulmark. He had given up trying.

Then came Mike Stamford and a park bench.

John leaned heavily on his cane, the memories the lab at St Barts bought back were bittersweet - back then he had been so sure of his future, so sure of his career and so sure that his soulmate would find him. The moment he caught sight of the man with his back turned to him, he knew. He knew and he was terrified. And then he turned, the man who was painfully thin – who raised those miraculously green eyes to John’s, where they froze. Neither of them heard Mike leave. John’s eyes widened as he took in the man’s sleeve. It was bare. And there resting just above the wrist was a strange, angular sigil. Protection. Polarity. Warrior. Regeneration. _Mine._ John thought with wonder. That’s my heart. He tore off his cuff baring his own Soulmark, and saw the other man’s mouth twitch, his eyes widen in identical wonderment.

“I…my name is John. John Watson”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's Soulmark: http://tinypic.com/r/5krcqu/5
> 
> Sherlock's Soulmark: http://tinypic.com/r/343qd13/5
> 
> Thank you for reading please comment and let me know what you think :)


	2. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would it have been so bad? Sherlock pondered silently. He stroked the Soulmark on his arm tentatively – the mark which he noticed with dread was streaked with an ugly black, with dashes of grey starting to creep in. It’s too late for us. But I am sorry. Sorry that I couldn’t be normal. For you.

If for the middle and working classes an Etching was something to be celebrated, for the upper classes it was the exact opposite. To the traditional British nobility it was preferable – sometimes essential – that one married within one’s own class. Violet Holmes never met her Soulmate, would have had her Soulmark removed if such a thing could be done. Her right forearm was covered in the sprawling, angular handwriting of her Soulmate. To her family’s shame she Etched early, at only ten years of age, and the Soulmark made it clear that her Soulmate would make a very inappropriate match for the sole heir to a diamond fortune. It was a shopping list, twined around her arm, containing the most mundane and ridiculous items.

Her father forbade her from seeking out her Soulmate even if she had been so inclined – and to a woman as intelligent, as unique as Violet Vernet the very idea of settling for anyone less that her equal was unfathomable. Ten years after her marriage to a man whom Violet came, in time, to both respect and admire she collapsed. She was found by her husband clutching her Soulmark, sobbing uncontrollably.

Her Soulmark had turned the ugly white of scar tissue, the universal sign that her Soulmate was dead.

Siger Holmes was a bookish man, with a remarkable gift for insight and perception; indeed his intellect placed him amongst the most gifted in the country. He was at times bemused and exasperated by his wife, yet there was never a doubt in his heart that he loved her, honestly and truly. As far as Siger was concerned his Soulmark was little more than an irritating splodge on his right wrist, his Soulmate’s presence a constant thorn digging into his mind.

No wonder that their two equally gifted children would come to regard Etching as a bitter curse, rather than a gift.

Their youngest son, Sherlock, was born with his Soulmark already Etched on his skin, a bitter disappointment to Violet who pursed her lips and without a word slipped a cuff onto her son’s right arm. Siger was marked in his absence from his wife’s bedside, not for the first time Violet despaired at the mind of a genius who could solve quadratic equations in seconds, but to whom the birth of son was forgettable, even _deletable._

“Sherlock, caring is not an advantage and to have your heart on the sleeve of another is the greatest weakness imaginable.”

She whispered to the newborn, blinking back tears as she vowed that any threat, perceived or realised, would not be allowed to touch her children. Especially if that threat came in the form of their heart, bared for the world to hurt.

 

Need

“I need to leave the house”

“I need to find out”

“I need to know!”

From the moment Sherlock Holmes started to talk he never _wanted_ anything, he _needed_ everything, immediately. When he was five he overheard his mother having a conversation in hushed toned with his father,

  
“I cannot do it Siger. Not with two of them. Raising _one_ genius is bad enough, but between the two of them I shall go mad…please come home…just come home. Please.”

Sherlock scowled fiercely, despite being pleased at being referred to as a genius, which he _was,_ no matter what stupid _wrong_ Mycroft had to say, he was nevertheless disconcerted to hear his mother beg – a Holmes did not _beg._ A Holmes _took._

Sherlock put the conversation out of his mind. He had more important things on his mind – he was attempting to deduce the exact nature of the household servant’s Soulmarks – something his mother had called rude and his father had called smart. Smart to know the weaknesses of those around you.

Sherlock knew he was clever. _Very_ clever. He also knew that it was dangerous to let anyone know exactly how clever he was, they tended to get disconcerted at best and angry at worst to be corrected by a child barely out of infancy. _Stupid_ he thought darkly. Everyone is so stupid. They just don’t _think._ His Soulmark was concealed beneath an elaborate black leather sleeve on his arm, the mark itself was boring. Remarkable only in the fact that Sherlock had no idea what it resembled, with _wrong_ Mycroft looking at him askance when he asked if he did.

“Never bare your Soulmark Sherlock, even to me”

And so Sherlock was left to his own deductions regarding the irritating human being to whom his soul was tied. His mother told him it was of no consequence, that it didn’t matter whose heart was currently Etched on his skin. Sherlock didn’t correct her – Mycroft had insisted that it was inexcusably rude to correct his parents – yet he knew it _did_ matter who his Soulmate was, their mind was a constant annoyance to him, his mind running so much faster than everyone else’s, yet impeded by the presence that kept bombarding him with: _sun and sky, football, school, homework, hungry hungry hungry, telly, tired now tired tired, fun, games, sun, rain, cold, hungry, tired, I want want want…._ So from almost as soon as Sherlock recognised the mind of his _Soulmate_ he began to actively block them, they were boring, ordinary and he could think more clearly when the voice was blocked.

Then one evening, about a month after Sherlock’s sixth birthday, the presence in his mind ceased being a whisper and suddenly became roar. _NO NO NO! DON’T HURT HER!!_ Sherlock screamed and clutched his head, an action which caused his brother to stare wide eyed before shouting for his mother, dropping to his knees beside his younger brother. Sherlock tossed his head from side to side, his mind rejecting being _here_ and _there_ simultaneously, his quicksilver brain unable to process the sheer volume of information.

Sherlock wept silently into his brother’s arms, as he was overcome with resentment that anyone could have that much power over him. Before he blockaded himself from that presence in his mind once more he had just enough presence of mind to send a single thought at the proud mind attached to his – _STUPID!_

His ‘Soulmate’ was stupid. The same as everyone else. Sherlock wanted nothing more to do with them. Sherlock _needed_ nothing from them.

 

Shadow

 

“I don’t need _help_ Mycroft. What I need is to be left alone...go ahead tell mother…and father as well for all the good _that_ will do…yes…yes…fine.”

Sherlock practically snarled into the phone, slamming the receiver down with a satisfying _slam._ He didn’t need his brother interfering with his life, he had demonstrated that he was perfectly capable of surviving away from home, he was doing _fine._

His ‘drug problem’ wasn’t a _problem;_ it was an _experiment_ …one which he could stop at any time he decided. Mycroft’s interference was neither wanted nor needed. Sherlock hated university, it was bustling and loud. But it was all so… _boring._ Ordinary people, doing mind-numbingly tedious things, the same things, day after day after day. Even Victor was boring, although perhaps the least tedious of all those Sherlock consented to spend time with.

But drugs certainly weren’t boring.

Sherlock knew that he was skirting on the edge of danger each time he injected, swallowed or smoked a substance that society had declared illegal. _Legality._ Just another word for boring. Sherlock relished the thrill that the drugs bought, some of which quietened his constantly loud mind, others which increased his capacity for deduction – turning his already brilliant mind into something truly extraordinary.

Sherlock had been invited to a party by Victor – therefore he knew that despite the overabundance of frankly _appalling_ youth, there would also be a choice selection of substances which would make him forget that fact. Sherlock let a small smirk cross his features, he liked the persona he had created – the _freak –_ it allowed him solitude whilst ensuring that nonetheless he got a certain amount of acknowledgement from the other students. Something that was difficult enough to get considering he was nineteen and already on his second degree.

It had been a long time since Sherlock had thought about his supposed Soulmate. That night as he lay blissed out in the ratty student house, he lay with his Soulmark bared – one of his ‘friends’ had laughed and made a joke about injecting the substance _des jours_ directly into the Etching. Sherlock was gone by that point. Yet some part of his mind, a part that still longed for something more than _toleration,_ wanted to be something to someone beyond an amusement, an interesting party trick.

It was that part that recoiled from the suggestion, that clung protectively to his arm, curling it into his body – _protect –_ it insisted.

Sherlock remembered when he had begun to investigate his Soulmark, his mind refused to allow even the most mundane puzzles to remain unsolved, and the mark on his own skin – the mark that had remained unchanged from the soft brown it had been at his birth – presented the most fascinating of puzzles initially. Until Sherlock solved it. His Soulmark was a combination of two Celtic runes. The runes for Warrior and Protection. Boring. Dull. As soon as the puzzle was solved Sherlock deleted the meaning. It was now insignificant.

After Sherlock had stumbled back to his room, he traced the Soulmark, his keen gaze tracing the angular rune – a luxury he had denied himself for years, insisting that he was stronger than that, that he didn’t need a ‘Soulmate’ to make himself whole. He reached out – very tentatively – to that presence in his mind, allowed the thoughts of another to flood his mind for the first time since he’d been a child. What he heard hardened his heart. ‘ _I would protect you. I would heal you.’_ Sherlock slammed the metaphorical door in his mind. He didn’t need protecting. He didn’t need healing. He was Sherlock Holmes. And he was just _fine._

 

Friction

It was a long time before Sherlock acknowledged that he wasn’t ‘fine’, that perhaps he wasn’t as in control of his drug use as he liked to think…and he had made a huge mistake by assuming that the weary looking Sergeant Lestrade, who had busted him for illegal substance abuse, would be partial to a bribe. It was this miscalculation more than anything which bought home the reality of the situation. Sherlock had made a basic error, one which he could not guarantee he would have made had he been sober. That scared him. Scared him enough that when Mycroft reached out a hand, he did not hesitate to accept it. Well not that much anyway.

Sherlock found that staying clean was hard. Much harder than he had thought possible. Over time he came to realise that it would never go away completely. The temptation to dabble. Just _one_ hit, what could it hurt? It was through sheer strength of will that each and every day he avoided the needle that would send him into that blissful state, where it didn’t matter that the world around him was _dull._

Then he found The Work.

 _Capitalised._ In his mind The Work was always capitalised. Sherlock’s gift of deduction had always been something he had found as crippling as it was useful – with its ability to incite as much hatred in others as it did nervousness. No one wanted to be around someone who could deduce the exact nature of your Soulmark just from what sleeve you were using. Yet in The Work Sherlock found the niche that not only appreciated his mind, it _needed_ it.

It was around that time that Sherlock decided there was no point wearing a sleeve to cover his Soulmark. Because whoever his Soulmate was they were not a weakness to Sherlock. Sherlock had no weaknesses beyond the onset of boredom, of the tedium that crept in when The Work was done.

Sherlock found that he didn’t exactly ‘get on’ with people. He had known this from an early age, but his brain had been fogged with drugs for so long he had forgotten the innumerable ways in which ordinary people took offence to simple facts.

“Mr Holmes I do _not_ think that this is an appropriate venue to be having this discussion…”

“Sherlock, would you please just _shut up_ about my wife?!”

“He’s my Soulmate…you…you Freak! If you do have a Soulmate it’s no wonder they’re not around…who would want _you_ as a Soulmate?!” 

That got Sherlock thinking. The careless phrasing used by an irate young PC Donovan, intended to hurt, retaliation for a casual deduction about her current partner. For the first time in a long time Sherlock felt a twinge of regret. The motion made his lip curl. It was useless to regret the decision he had made a lifetime ago, to reject that phantom presence in his mind.

And yet Sherlock regretted.

 _Would it have been so bad?_ He pondered silently, retreating to the innermost depths of his mind. Despite his doubts, however, he came to the inexorable conclusion that whoever his Soulmate was, whatever they might have been, if they could ever have accepted him, it was all now obsolete. He stroked the Soulmark on his arm tentatively – the mark which he noticed with dread was streaked with an ugly black, with dashes of grey starting to creep in. _It’s too late for us. But I_ am _sorry. Sorry that I couldn’t be normal. For you._

Music

_“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song.”_

“ _Plato,_ Mycroft, really? What next, _Kipling?”_

Sherlock snarled at his brother, who was currently eyeing him with trepidation from across their father’s prized mahogany desk.

“It concerns Etching, Sherlock, and is therefore of no small amount of significance to-”

“Mycroft for the last time, and I really must insist this _is_ the last time  - and really I fail to see how you can lecture _me_ when _you_ have been ignoring _your_ Soulmark entirely – but my Soulmark is utterly unimportant and - ”

Mycroft sighed and ran a hand tiredly through his hair, hair that Anthea kept reminding him was receding alarmingly. Sometimes he wished she had a brother like Sherlock, if _anyone_ could have a brother like Sherlock, and then, _then,_ they could lecture him about the amount of cake he ate, or the speed at which his hair was receding. Subtlety didn’t work with Sherlock. He saw through it in seconds.

“Sherlock. You are losing them.”

Sherlock paused in his tirade to glare at his brother, who was gesturing pointedly at his Soulmark, his Soulmark which he was now an ugly grey shade and slowly getting dimmer and dimmer, fading into a ghostly hue – the symbol of missed opportunity.

“Mycroft what is and what isn’t is really none of your-”

 _PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN._ Sherlock went down like a felled tree. His right hand clutching at his left shoulder desperately, the pain that was traveling from his Soulbond into his nervous system was agonising.

Sherlock caught a glimpse of _sand, grit, pain, please god let me live_ and suddenly the presence that Sherlock had carried with him all his life was _there,_ in his mind – a confusing mass of thoughts and feelings and _pain._ Then came the words that would haunt him for years to come, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please…_

And Sherlock screamed.

It was a scream of bitterness – because it just wasn’t _fair_ that he, Sherlock, should be denied the chance to ever meet this individual to whom his heart sang. It was a scream of loss because he now realised the infinite number of ‘what could have beens’. And it was a scream of panic. For Sherlock was suddenly, desperately, irrationally _terrified_ of losing his Soulmate. And then there was nothing. The presence in his mind was gone along with the agonising pain, Sherlock clutched desperately at his Soulmark as if he could coax life into it simply through force of will alone.

_Live. You have to live._

And a small, largely silent part of Sherlock whispered.

_Please._

Harmony

 

After _That Day_ (the day that warranted capitalisation),Sherlock spent two weeks worriedly checking his Soulmark for signs that it was developing scar tissue, the sign of a slow death. He was short(er) with the Met than their incompetence probably warranted and ignored his brother’s phone calls, which was certainly _not_ unwarranted. He also spent increasingly longer amounts of time simply staring at his right arm, which had settled back into that ugly grey. But after the weeks turned into months Sherlock had to conclude that his Soulmate was decidedly alive and that was unlikely to change in the near future, he was able to relax and _think_ past the inconvenient and unfamiliar emotions that had clogged his brain.  

He thought about the years in which he had ignored his Soulmark.

He thought about the (man/woman? Probably man) that bore his heart.

And he thought about the possibility he would never meet them.

The thought was suddenly so abhorrent that he cast it at once from his mind, which, luckily for him, proved to be the catalyst that allowed the door in his mind to open just a crack. And through that crack the vague illusion of a gun crossed over. _NO!_ His mind rejected the possibility, but at the same time he attempted to force past the barrier in his mind – now erected by his Soulmate – shoving the sense of _alarm_ through as strongly as he could manage.

It wasn’t until years later he realised the debt he owed to Mike Stamford.

Sherlock was, at first, annoyed by the interruption to his work – to The Work. But then he felt… _something._ A fleeting, nagging sensation that when he tried to describe it later he found himself unable to recall anything about it. _Resonance._ He turned his head and his mind went into overdrive. His mind rested – no _fixated –_ on the man who had entered the room. The man with a military haircut, with bright, yet haggard looking features – as though the world had kicked him into the gutter and he was simply waiting for the next blow The man who carried a cane he didn’t require. The man was undoubtedly his Soulmate. The deductions came thick and fast, his mind skipping over itself in its haste to categorise this man, the _most important_ man he had ever deduced. Needs. Friction. Shadow. Music. Harmony. Sherlock’s mind stuttered. _That’s mine. My heart. On his sleeve._ And then he spoke, this broken, not quite whole man, whose eyes had widened in recognition – as though they had met before.

““I…my name is John. John Watson”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't get a chance to view them at the end of the last chapter here are Sherlock/John's Soulmark's which I designed for the chapter, with the inspirations for them taken from a selection of Celtic runes.
> 
> John's Soulmark: http://tinypic.com/r/5krcqu/5
> 
> Sherlock's Soulmark: http://tinypic.com/r/343qd13/5
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> Author's Note
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> 
> Thank you for the response that I have received for this fanfiction - it is truly inspiring to know how many people have read, left kudos or commented! This is not the end of this series by a long way and I have plenty of ideas planned for the not so distant future.
> 
> Coming soon will be Mycroft/Lestrade fic which I would love to hear your thoughts on.
> 
> Additionally I want to know if you think I should carry on the Sherlock/John fic, following the BBC canon in my Resonance verse!.
> 
> As always any comments would be truly appreciated - good or bad I want to know what you think!


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